


Dream, Dream All the Time Away

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Wincest/Weecest [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And he's set on throttling John for what he did, Angst, Bobby sort of finds out, Brother/Brother, But He's Cool With It, CSA, Child Sexual Abuse, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A plus parenting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Parent/Child Incest (forced), Prostate Milking, Rimming, Sam's POV, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, Sort Of, Unreliable Narrator, can you blame me though, every single part of this is heartbreaking, i hate John so much, it was super hard to write tbh, it's very brief but kinda graphic, like I had to take a bath and have some tea after, literally no fluff to be found, okay anyway, okay i think that's it, porn...with plot?, protective!Dean, uuuhhh What else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: The first time it happened, he didn't eat for two whole days after.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Forced Sam Winchester/John Winchester, Weecest - Relationship, Wincest
Series: Wincest/Weecest [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597030
Kudos: 145





	Dream, Dream All the Time Away

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not condone this dynamic irl, no matter the circumstances.
> 
> Work title from the song Could We Survive
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual. All mistakes are mine, but the boys and the SPN universe are not.
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> Dark - Galt Aureus  
> For Everything a Reason - Carina Round  
> Could We Survive - Joseph Arthur  
> Kingdom Come - The Civil Wars  
> Medicine - Daughter

The first time it happened, he didn't eat for two whole days after, even though his stomach kept pushing into his throat and he spent several minutes at one point gagging over the open toilet.

But that was months ago, just before Sam had turned thirteen, and now it's a regular occurrence, and Sam keeps making excuses for it even though he knows it's wrong. Convinces himself it's because he reminds John of Mary, that Sam is the last little piece of her that he has left. Or maybe it's purely drunken confusion. Or maybe, maybe, Sam had done something irredeemable and these are his endless punishments, these nights when Dean is conked out on the couch downstairs and John stumbles his way into the brothers' bedroom and touches Sam in a way that makes him whimper and cry, and not in a good way.

The first time, Sam had sobbed, and John had growled at him to shut up. Since then, he's restrained his sounds mostly to little hard breaths when it's especially painful.

Sam never gets hard when this happens - not like when he's touching himself or thinking of something that gets him blushing. No, this doesn't turn him on. This terrifies him. He always keeps his hands buried under his lower back, twisting in the sheets, and his mouth sewn shut, though sometimes John tries to kiss him. And it always hurts. Always. And he's always distant and sullen for days afterward. 

He wishes he could tell someone. But he can't because he knows it would just get worse, no matter what. If he tells a teacher, well, they're never in town long enough for that to make a difference anyway. If he tells a cop, he would be putting all of them in danger, what with their brow-raising impermanence and shifty eyes as they hand over the cards they steal. If he tells Dean...he doesn't know what would happen. He's scared that Dean would just get mad at him, tell him to behave and follow dad's orders and be a good soldier. Scared that Dean would look at him with disgust and tell him to fuck off, that he is a sick child and deserves this.

He knows Dean always protects him but Dean also always listens to their father, and Sam can't gauge on which side Dean would land in this situation.

God, he wishes he could tell someone. Wishes someone would rescue him. But miracles are reserved for the unexpecting and Sam is selfish.

\--

And then one day, almost a year after it first happens, he  _ is _ rescued. Maybe it's because he stopped hoping. Or maybe it's because he started hoping so hard that he willed it into existence. 

Whatever the case, the moment the door opens and the hallway lights burst in to splash across Sam's bed as John ruts himself against him, Sam feels the most indescribable relief when he hears Dean start yelling. When John topples off the bed and onto the floor with a grunt. When Dean stands over the man with a furious, untouchable look in his eyes, then scoops Sam up and carries him out of that house. 

When they pull out of the driveway in the Impala with their measly belongings stuffed in their bug-out bags in the backseat, and speed off to who-knows-where, and Dean holds him close and tells him it's okay.

It's okay, he's safe now.

\--

Dean doesn't stop pacing and grumbling, hunched over and breathing hard, until several hours after they've settled into their sleazy, no-tell motel for the night. 

Sam watches him with wary eyes, curled into himself on the bed against the wall with puffy eye sockets and a red nose from sobbing for so long, until finally, Dean drops down onto the end of the bed and hangs his head in his hands.

Hesitantly, voice hoarse, Sam asks, "Dean?"

For a moment, he thinks Dean doesn't hear him as the older boy just sits there, slowing his breaths. But then there's the sound of fabric shifting and Dean turns around, and for the first time, Sam notices the pink stain blooming across his brother's face. 

"Was that the first time?"

Sam is taken off gaurd by the question. But he slowly shakes his head, no. Feels a trepidation growing in his gut.

"Jesus Christ," Dean spits, closing his eyes and turning his head down again. He sits in silence for another minute before moving to speak once more. This time, his voice is wobbly and there is a heart-wrenching shine to his eyes. "How long?" Sam doesn't answer at first. Swallows and ducks his head, shame painting his skin. Dean repeats himself, louder, demanding, "How long, Sammy?!"

"A year," Sam whispers, the words tumbling out over his chest. 

He hears Dean bite out a strained 'fuck' and then stand up. Hears the footsteps come closer. Hears the bedsprings creak as Dean's weight dips the mattress beside Sam. Hears his heart stammer as Dean's hand lands on his thigh.

"Why didn't you say something?" It's a plea, a desperate cry, more than anything. One that Sam can't ignore for long. When he meets Dean's gaze, there are tears streaking his brother's face and weaving into the cracks of his lips that tighten and quiver. "Why didn't you tell me, Sammy? I could've stopped it. I would do anything for you, you  _ know _ that."

Sam simply stares at the hand on his leg, not sure if he can use his voice without breaking. Guilt keeps his eyes weighed down so he struggles to lift them to look at his brother.

Then, he's being hauled upward, arms around his back, and it's Dean so of course his automatic response is to loop his own arms around Dean's neck let himself be rocked back and forth as Dean quietly sobs into his ear, "Oh, God, Sammy, I could've stopped it. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry, so sorry." 

Over and over agin, Dean blubbers his apology and clings to Sam like he's the last thing on Earth that still matters at all.

They fall asleep this way, in each other's arms, awkwardly tangled on the bed. 

Sam doesn't dream.

\--

Dean makes him eat breakfast. Says he has to, or he's not going to feel well enough to travel. 

Sam obeys with a bud of contentment in his heart. Feels normal and safe with Dean there to tell him what to do.

What little food he's able to stomach thankfully stays down.

\--

It takes a full day of driving with minimal stops to get to Bobby's house. When they eventually do, Bobby says their dad has been calling, but Dean tells him everything he saw and the few pieces of information Sam gave him and Bobby's face turns stormy.

The next time the phone rings and Bobby answers, he tells John to stuff a grave and lose his number, or he'd personally track John down and strangle him to death.

Their dad doesn't call again but Sam worries. The man's smart - he probably put it together immediately that Sam and Dean have made it to Bobby's place. There's no doubt he knows where they are. What if he comes chasing after them? 

What then? 

Dean and Bobby both assure him that they would sooner pump two cubic tons of lead into that man's body than let him anywhere near Sam again.

Still, he worries.

How can he not?

So he becomes inseparable from his brother. If Dean leaves the house, Sam leaves with him; if Dean goes out to the yard to work on cars, Sam goes out to sit and watch and occasionally help; wherever Dean falls asleep, Sam is curled up right beside him. When Sam has to shower, he makes Dean promise he'll sit right outside the door the entire time and Dean always does.

Bobby doesn't bat an eye - as far as he's concerned, Sam is coping the only way he can. And maybe there are healthier skills he could utilise, but in the end, Dean is the only constant he has. And maybe Dean is overprotective, always has been, and gladly enables Sam's attachment, going so far as to panic any time Sam leaves his line of sight.

And maybe that's how it comes to this; when Dean asks Sam to stay inside the bathroom while Dean takes a shower, Sam doesn't even blink before agreeing. He'll do anything for his brother. And maybe by normal standards, fourteen is a little too old to be seeing your eighteen year old brother naked, but they'd seen each other naked before and they have always been far from normal, have always been as fucked up as it gets...

But when Dean strips down and turns on the water, some invisible force comes over Sam and he grabs Dean's wrist and, with pleading eyes, he asks, "Can I come in, too?"

The request is so unexpected, it almost knocks Dean off balance, but he nods slowly, thinking it's pretty logical for both of them to shower at once to save Bobby some money on the water and heating bills, and waits for Sam to peel his clothes off. 

It's a sickening shock when Dean catches sight of the scarring on Sam's back from the times when their father broke skin dragging his nails down Sam's spine, but Dean bars himself from saying anything by biting his tongue. 

He guides Sam into the stream of warm water and reaches for the shampoo, hand on his brother's hip. Sam's back is to him, so he has easy access to the long mop of shaggy cedar hair. The younger boy makes a few contented noises as Dean lathers the wash into his scalp, then tips Sam forward to wash it out.

Sam hands him the soap next without a word, always aware of the other's presence, always one step ahead with that brilliant mind that directly links almost every thought. Sam knows Dean is smirking at his aptitude for reading his older brother like a book, but Sam also knows it's just patterns - everything is patterns, everything is routines. Humans in general are static creatures, built for the safety of monotony, and that's the only safety Sam and Dean have ever had the promise of. So maybe Sam is a little obsessed with watching his brother's patterns, his brother's routines, with already being ready for the next step before Dean even thinks about it. 

That's why Sam is stunned when Dean does unpredictable things. Like, for example, pulling Sam's back flush against his chest, fitting his soothing Big Brother hand on Sam's waist, and slowly easing the soap across Sam's ribs and stomach. He can't be certain what Dean is thinking right now, and he's not sure if it scares him or excites him. Either way, it's making him hard and he's struggling to think beyond how he suddenly, inexplicably wants Dean to stroke him until he comes and then kiss every inch of his wet neck as he settles back down. 

Where did that thought come from? And why doesn't it terrify him? Why isn't he more concerned?

The soap bar glides effortlessly across his soaking skin, briefly scraping over each nipple and making him twitch. From the angle Dean is at, Sam swears the older boy should be able to see the erection now bouncing with his hitching breaths and reaching upward, looking for any semblance of friction. But he doesn't seem to notice somehow, just keeps running the soap over Sam's body, his arms and neck and belly and hips and--

Dean's thumb bumps against the base of Sam's throbbing cock, and the older boy pauses, stiffening against Sam's back.

"Sammy?" He mumbles, confusion in his voice.

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpers, though he doesn't make an attempt to pry himself away, just stands on trembling legs and prays that his brother won't vomit directly into the drain over how disgustingly defective Sam is.

"Is it...because of me?" Dean asks cautiously, still not moving a single inch, and God, the ache in Sam's balls is becoming painful.

Sam's voice cracks as he releases a nearly inaudible, "Mhm," while his body starts working of its own volition to grind his ass back against Dean's crotch. Then, though he knows well and good that it's inarguably the most  _ wrongdirtybad _ thing he could ever say, he begs, "Please touch me."

Although he feels the strong twitch of interest that Dean's now gradually hardening length gives, Dean's mouth has always been capable of the most heartbreaking lies.

"Sammy, no," he grits out, but he sounds desperate, like he's just barely restraining himself from tipping over the edge and tumbling down an irreversible path. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Sam quizzes, still pushing his hips back, wriggling now to split his seam open on the line of Dean's dick. The grunt it elicits is mouthwatering.

Fingers tighten bruisingly on Sam's waist and Dean growls, "Both."

"Why? Why can't you touch me?" Sam's practically mewling now, fingers twining with Dean's and guiding his hands down with an effortlessness that shouldn't be possible given the things Dean is saying.

"Because that would make me just like dad."

That gives Sam pause, eyes widening at the partial truth of it and hips stuttering to a stop at the shameful tone of Dean's voice. Dean wants this but he doesn't want to want it, because he knows he shouldn't, because he knows just as well as Sam that it's not okay. But Sam's not okay. And, based on his extant vigilance and heart pounding worry as of late, neither is Dean.

"No," Sam states simply, returning to caressing Dean's cock with the cleft of his ass, more withdrawn than before but determined still. "No, it wouldn't. I want this. I want you to touch me. That's not the same. He didn't ask, he didn't do it because I wanted him to, he didn't care that it hurt for me. You do. I know you do. And I know you want this, too. I can feel you."

Dean's breaths are coming in sporadic bursts, and the soap bar is pressing so hard into Sam's skin, he swears it's gotta be deep cleaning every layer. 

"Fucking shit," Dean mutters angrily, but finally he concedes, slamming the soap down on the wall rack and holding Sam against him by the hips. He starts thrusting into the warmth of Sam's cheeks, breathing ragged and simmering on the spot beneath Sam's ear. "You have to promise. Gotta promise me, Sammy, that you want this. Can't give me a half-assed yes."

"I promise," Sam gasps out, whole-hearted and enthusiastic. "God, please, yes, I promise." 

"Shit," Dean repeats, and forces himself to stop rutting against the squeeze of Sam's ass. "Yeah, okay, Sammy. Okay. What do you want? What do you want me to do?"

"A-Anything, Dean. God, anything. Everything," Sam gushes, tips of his fingers going numb as every drop of blood rushes to his centre. "Want you to feel me and taste me and fuck me and I want your mouth and your cock, and- _ fuck! _ I wa-want you, just want you. Just. J-Just anything please."

" _ Christ _ , Sammy," Dean hisses into Sam's neck, not really understanding where all of this came from or how they possibly could've been building up to it, not understanding why Sam wants it, but goddamnit, he'll do anything and everything for his little brother, anything to make him happy, and if this is what he wants, who is Dean to deny him? 

Yeah, maybe he's rationalising fucking his own brother, but who wouldn't with a lithe little body squirming against their pulsing heat?

"Will you, Dean? Will you touch me? Taste me?" Sam's high pitched whining, pleading, sounds like angels singing. Shouldn't. God, so fucked up. 

"Yeah, baby boy. Yeah. I'll do whatever you want," Dean nods frantically, biting back the moan stuck in his throat. "Let me eat you out? Please?"

Sam keens, arching his back sharper than a gymnast, and nods feverishly. Without instruction, he leans forward and braces himself with one hand on the wall and one on the mobility bar above the tub faucet.

Dean sinks to his knees on the slippery floor, dragging his lips down the curve of Sam's spine, gentle hands stilling the younger boy's hips. When he's got his face level with Sam's ass, he moves his hands to cup beneath the cheeks with the v of his thumb and forefinger, lifting and squishing the meaty muscles around, observing the way they split open perfectly down the centre to lead his eye straight to where Sammy's hole is nestled. Dean pulls the firm globes apart with his thumbs to get a better view of the pink furl, the warm, secret part of Sam he's had dreams about pushing his tongue and fingers and cock into. He'll never admit it, not now - he doesn't want to reinforce Sam's vigour. But he barely hides his zeal as he licks a lascivious stripe up the length of Sam's crack, flicking the tip of his tongue up at the top before deliberately drawing it back down until he reaches Sam's entrance, where he laves around the rim, brazen and unfaltering.

Above him, Sam is letting loose unadulterated, filthy nonsense, some of which sounds like begging, most of which sounds like just mindless babbling.

Dean tries to tease the tip of his tongue just past the edge of Sam's muscle, but Sam rams himself back into the sensation, and Dean's tongue slides all the way in, smooth and slick, and he moans. Sam tastes earthy and pliant, like old leather and natural boy-musk and Dean is immediately crazy for it, pushing further in, craving more.

He wiggles his tongue around inside, trying to taste every inch of Sam's inner walls, and Sam bends sharply into it, the arch of his spine positively obscene. 

"DeanDeanDeanDeanDean," Sam is bubbling, vibrating energy boiling over out of his jackhammer heart through his mouth. He needs more,  _ morenowpleasefuck _ it's not enough, he wants to feel every part of Dean, wants to feel every cubic centimetre of his brother's heavy cock as Dean pushes into him for the first time. "Dean, please please, want you, want your cock. Please put your fingers in me."

Dean sobs against Sam's tender skin, closing his mouth around the yielding rim and sucking once before removing his tongue from the divot and running the tip of his finger over it instead. The malleable elastic gives at the slight pressure, allowing Dean to slip in to the second knuckle. He inhales sharply at the supple velvet feel of Sam's channel, resting his temple against an asscheek and watching his digit twist and disappear deeper inside, watching the way Sam's hole opens up to his finger.

"Jesus, Sammy," he mutters, barely perceptible over the deafening roar of the water hitting the acrylic tub. "Jesus, so fuckin' good. So fuckin' hot. God, just takin' my finger like this, so fuckin' gorgeous, little brother."

Sam whines in response, rocking back to meet Dean's rhythmic fingering. 

"Please, more," Sam begs again, beginning to lose his sense of rhythm. "Please, don't wanna come yet."

And he  _ will _ be coming soon if Dean doesn't relent and add a second digit.

"Yeah, yeah, baby, alright," Dean pants, presses his lips into the flesh of Sam's hip. "Give me the soap again."

Sam shoves the soap at him impatiently, again demanding, "More, Dean. Please."

Dean slathers his fingers in the unscented body wash, then teasingly circles a corner of the bar around Sam's blinking ring of muscle until Sam tilts his head back and looses an animalistic wail.

He replaces the soap in its previous spot and nestles his index and middle fingers against the pulsing entrance, other hand wrapping around Sam's hip as Dean asks, "You ready? Don't wanna hurt you, Sammy. Promise you'll tell me to stop if it hurts too much."

Sam's soaking hair flops around as he nods fervently. So Dean presses his fingers past the relaxed rim that's so much tighter around two than it was around just one. It sends a jolt of chills up Dean's spine, seeing his fingers sink in slowly, all the way to their hilts. He stops for a second to make sure Sam is okay, and the little fucker is so impatient, he starts fucking himself back on the digits breaching him instead of waiting for Dean to move, like he was born to take Dean's fingers in his tiny ass.

The noises Sam makes are salacious, lewd, would probably offend a seasoned porn star. There's small boy gasps and keeling moans and guttural growls as the younger boy uses Dean's fingers to get off, and fuck if it isn't the hottest goddamn thing Dean's ever seen.

When Sam, once again, cries out for more, Dean responds instantly, adding his ring finger on his next slide in, and Sam gasps hard, full-body twitching.

"Deeeeee-" his voice is choked off by more gasping so profane, Dean briefly considers they may never be able to enter another church again. 

Sam is rapidly climbing to orgasm, but he knows even if he comes now, that doesn't mean he can't later, with Dean's cock pounding into him. Last he checked, his refractory period is close to non-existent. So when Dean's fingertips find his prostate, he doesn't protest, just lets his brother massage into it and lets himself spread his legs just a bit further, chasing the stimulation for a second before he's releasing his load on the wall and crying out Dean's name. His legs buckle a bit, but Dean catches him and holds him there, fingers still mercilessly rubbing his spot and his other hand reaching up to stroke his cock until Sam's tremouring with sensitivity. 

"Fuck," Dean croaks to himself, then pulls his fingers out and raises up onto his feet. He spins his brother around and presses him back against the wall, forehead to forehead. "Fuck, Sammy, you're so fuckin' pretty. Make the prettiest noises."

Sam whimpers again, urging, "Please fuck me. Pleasepleaseplease god Dean please."

Dean huffs out softly, leaning in closer and closer until their lips are slotting together, and Sam kisses him back, throwing his arms around Dean's neck. Without breaking from it, Dean sneaks his hands beneath Sam's thighs and hauls him up, holding the younger boy against the wall with his body. 

When finally they do pull away to catch their breath, Sam says, "Want you inside me."

Dean would lose it right then and there, Sam thinks judging by the look on his face, were it not for Sam's dick pulsing back to life against his belly. Instead, the older boy just nods, breathing rough, tells Sam to hang on to the metal mobility bar below him with both hands, backs up a bit, and finally,  _ finally _ feeds his member into Sam's stretched hole. The push is slow and gentle and easy, and Sam's head falls back against the wall, mouth hanging open, knuckles turning white.

Once Dean is fully sheathed, a bawdy moan escapes Sam's throat and echoes through the bathroom. Thank fuck Bobby is out in the salvage yard because there's no way they'd be able to explain that one away.

Sam's lower half stretches away from the wall that his upper back and head is leaned into, almost like laying on an invisible bed, but honestly so much better as Dean starts dragging in and out at a torturous pace, with respect to how Sam's legs are locked around his hips.

"Faster," Sam commands, locking his arms beneath him and preparing to have his head slammed into the tile wall. 

Dean wordlessly hands over his conviction and lets himself get a bit rough, fucking into his baby brother the way he's begging for and watching the boy's face morph with untamable pleasure. Dean feels himself getting close as Sam's walls clamp down on him spasmodically, and drops his head back now too, letting go of the rest of his inhibitions and ramming into Sam's hole with punishing force. Sam's moans and rising gasps build until he's practically screaming, and he's shooting hotly onto his stomach for the second time. 

"God, so good Sammy, so fuckin' good, lettin' your big brother fuck you, lettin' me fuck your hole like this,  _ fuck _ ," Dean blathers on, hips beginning to stammer and buck arrhythmically as he rides Sam through the younger's climax. "Yeah, yeah, that's it, baby boy, just like that, fuck--"

"Don't stop, I'm gonna come again," Sam sobs out, words slurring together, and sure enough, with Dean skewering him against the shower wall, Sam's dick tries pathetically to unload once more, only managing a weak spurt that dribbles down the underside of his shaft.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy, fucking shit--"

"Come inside me. Please," Sam bleats, allowing his brother to slam him down onto the throbbing cock stuffing his insides.

"Hoh,  _ fuck, Sammy! _ " Dean howls as he thrusts in one more time and holds himself there, coming thick and hard in the confines of his little brother's warmth. His cum seeps out around his dick before he's even finished, and he groans at the dripping feel of it. His voice is torn and shaking when he crumples up around Sam's body and mumbles, "Such a sweet boy, my little Sammy, my baby brother."

Sam sighs happily, relaxing his arms and throwing them around Dean's shoulders as the older boy leaves a trail of kisses up his chest.

The shower water is running lukewarm now, so they don't have much time to actually wash off. 

But once they're dried and in their pyjamas, they climb into bed and encase themselves in each other, hair and limbs draped like cloaks against the darkness of the world around them. 

They've only ever had just themselves. Just each other.

And maybe this is how it was always meant to be.

\--

Two years after Dean took him away from that hellish nightmare, Sam is finally getting comfortable being alone again, at home and even in public. He's doing well in school, coming home to Dean's pillaging mouth every evening when he gets back at five after finishing his homework at the library, and Dean's working his way to lead floor mechanic at the garage in town. If he gets the promotion this year, at the age of twenty he'll be the youngest in the history of the state - Sam went out of his way to check the records.

On the weekends, he and his brother and Bobby work tirelessly in the back corner of the salvage yard building a little home that Sam and Dean can have all to themselves. Mostly because Bobby has a girlfriend now - Wendy Crolls from the nice, pretty cottage down the street with the tomato garden and yellow painted chimney - and he wants some privacy.

But Sam suspects the other reason is that Bobby found them out when he came home early one day and they were messing around in their bedroom, so they didn't hear him come in, but there's no way  _ he _ didn't hear  _ them _ . Sam tends to get loud when there's no one around to be offended by it.

Sam suspects it, but he's never been sure since the incident. Bobby had certainly acted strange when they came down, showered and ready to make dinner, eyeing them warily for a while, but he never said a thing. So either he didn't hear, he did but he convinced himself it wasn't what he thought, or he did and he decided to leave it be, that the best thing for all of them was the don't ask, don't tell policy they lapsed into whenever it came to the things they all knew were probably reprehensible but that weren't doing enough damage to change.

Frankly, Sam is grateful. He doesn't know what he would do if someone tried to tear him away from his brother now, after everything. 

Which is why, when John approaches him out of the blue one day as he's leaving the library, he panics and cowers under his father's gaze.

John starts to apologise or something, but Sam isn't listening. He fixes his eyes on his dad's face but in his sweater pocket, he presses Dean's speed dial and he's relieved to find that he still has the ringer set to vibrate so it can't be heard outside the fabric.

"Get away from me," he grits as soon as he hears the faint sound of Dean picking up. "Get away from me or I swear I'll call Dean and he'll fucking kill you--"

"Please, Sam," John holds up his hands and shakes his head, fear flashing through his eyes. Because the cops? That's one thing. Their dad has always been able to handle cops; ex-marine, he'd let slip as casually as possible, served the country for two years before being honourably discharged. And cops would cry and croon over his bravery, his fucking brilliant heroism, and let him go purely out of respect. But Dean Winchester? John knows damn well, has experienced it first hand, that if you fuck with Dean Winchester or anything he loves, you're done-for, dead on the spot, hitting the ground before you can plead your case. And the one thing Dean loves more than anything else in the world is Sam. So John begs, "You don't have to do that, Sammy, I just want to talk to you, okay? I'm not here to hurt you."

"Bullshit," Sam spits, venom in his heart and in his quivering voice. "You fucking raped me. I was thirteen fucking years old, you sick piece of shit."

"That is no way to talk to your father, Sam," John's face turns cold, eyes steely, and Sam does not feel the rush of pride that usually comes with being proven right. "Now quit being a wimp and come with me."

"Fuck you!" Sam can tell the line is still open on his mobile, despite Dean having fallen silent immediately. He hopes--no, assumes Dean is already on his way. It's around the time he'll be heading home from the shop anyway. Even if he was already at the house, there's no way his brother wasn't starting his car the moment he heard John's voice. "Stay away from me!"

And, like a scene straight from an action movie, just as John is advancing on him, the Impala squeals into the lot and John whips around to stare. Sam takes the chance to dodge away from the wall he was being backed up against and sprints to the safe haven of his brother's arms as the older boy steps out with a rage like nothing Sam has ever seen before bolted to his face.

"You fucking son of a bitch," Dean bellows, and Sam lunges at him and throws his arms around Dean's waist, tucking his head under Dean's chin, though he's closing in on being the same height has his older sibling. Dean hugs him close and tilts them so Sam is partially hidden by Dean's leather-and-jean-clad body. "How fucking dare you! Where do you get the nerve to come around here, huh?! I'll fucking kill you, you arrogant bastard!"

Sam can't see John's face anymore, but he wishes he could, wants the satisfaction of seeing the terror in the eyes that match his own.

"Did he hurt you, Sammy?" Dean whispers so only Sam can hear and tightens his grip, keeping his eyes on their father who, as far as Sam can tell, hasn't made a move toward them. "Are you okay, baby boy?"

Sam nods and, though he's still vibrating with adrenaline and fear, he weakly hums, "Mhm," into his brothers shirt. "I'm okay."

"You're lucky I got here before you put your hands on him, you sick fuck, 'cause I woulda ripped them off with my teeth," Dean growls. He helps Sam slide into the front seat of the Impala through the driver's side and pauses in the door, one foot planted on the carpeted flooring, and looks back up at John one last time. "You know, it takes a special kind of evil freak to hunt monsters for sixteen years and never once see the one in the goddamn mirror."

With that, Dean drops into the driver's seat and slams the door, icy fury marring his young face, then puts her in drive and burns rubber out of there. 

\---

They tell Bobby about it as soon as they return home. The stormy choler that traces the age lines of his face nearly makes Sam want to huddle in a corner. But he knows that anger is not meant for him. He knows that anger is going to be poured into Dean and Bobby's effort to track John Winchester down, and put every bullet they have at their disposal through his head.

Bobby has Dean take Sam to the house-in-progress out back, mainly to give Dean a way to blow off steam that doesn't involve him destroying the main house or anything they've been working on in the salvage yard - they're all well aware of Dean's propensity for unrestrained, often calamitous physical violence when he's held himself back from killing someone who absolutely deserved it. But Sam thinks it's also meant to be a distraction for himself to remind him that he's still safe, that Dean and Bobby have his back, that he can't give up and go back to skulking through the shadows of the house at night, embracing his relentless insomnia, and moping around the yard during the day, keeping a tight radius around the two story home to avoid contact with the outside world.

He and Dean get the wooden walls of the bathroom and bedroom set up in the nearly three hours that Bobby spends calling up every mutual hunter friend he can find in his number book and telling them about the debacle, and that they need to stay light on their feet if they even so much as  _ think _ they've caught wind of the boys' dad.

That night, after their late dinner and Dean tucking Sam in like he used to when they were really young, when things were easier, Sam hears Dean and Bobby talking in low voices down the hallway.

He doesn't catch much of the conversation as he floats between sleep and the waking world. But the one thing he does hear remains tingling through his body as he lets himself drift off.

_** "The hunt for John Winchester has begun." ** _


End file.
